


Special Delivery With an Overnight Stamp

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [87]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic, Drunken Kissing, Everyone's Legal, M/M, Peter Can't Handle Beer, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 10:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15337896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “I’m not drunk,” Peter said drunkenly.





	Special Delivery With an Overnight Stamp

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Middle of the night. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

“I’m not drunk,” Peter said drunkenly.

Tony raised an eyebrow, saw Steve doing his damnedest not to laugh. “Kid,” Tony said, “you are the definition of blotto right now. Hate to break it to you.”

Peter turned his head, or tried to. Ended up half bent over the arm of the chair instead. “Am _not_.”

“Hoo boy,” Steve said, losing his battle with laughter. “How much did you let him have again?”

Tony smacked Steve’s arm, just on principle. “Two beers, Grandad. Two. Come on! You were right here the whole time; don’t give me this _how could you_ routine. I didn’t hear you make a peep.”

“Hey, in my day, we drank whiskey for breakfast.”

“The hell you did.”

Steve grinned. “Ok, Bucky did. But only when he was really hungover.”

“You are not helping,” Tony said. “Have I mentioned that? You are being like zero help right now.”

“You’re the one who got him wasted on two beers.”

Peter stirred. “Two?” he said. “I had two? Oh, god, no wonder I feel so weird.” He beamed, white teeth in a flushed face. “Never had more than like a few sips before. And I always thought beer tasted weird, like an old bread smoothie, you know? Gross. But your beers weren’t gross, Mr. Stark.” His eyes lit up at the same time his lids dipped, almost shy. “They were really good. But it makes sense that you’d know the right kind to buy. You know the right stuff all the time. That’s like your thing, isn’t it? You’re so smart, Tony. Your brain is like _waaggh_ , amazing. You’re amazing. Like, honestly.”

“Yeah, Tony,” Steve said between cackles. He was laughing so hard the couch was shaking. “You’re _amazing_.”

“Jesus christ,” Tony sighed. He stood up. “Ok, Peter. I’m calling it. You’re going home now.”

“Aw!” the kid said. “No! I’m fine. I don’t need to--”

Tony edged around the coffee table and caught Peter by one spindly arm. “You’re not fine and as it is, May is actively going to kill me--”

“Truth,” Steve said. “And you kinda deserve it.”

“No argument here,” Tony said, tugging at the nearly dead weight of his protege, their dinner guest, their greenest teammate who could punch Doctor Doom in the face but not handle two German stouts. “Let’s go, sloshed little spider. The pumpkin is leaving the ball.”

“Noooooo,” Peter said again, flopping around like a Slinky made out of lead. “Mr. Stark! Five more minutes, please.”

Tony shot a look at Steve. “Little help here, honey?”

Steve held up his hands and sat back with a smirk. “Nah,” he said. “Babe, you’re doing great.”

It took Tony a solid seven and some serious swearing to get Parker up and across the apartment, another two to bundle him into the elevator and decide to ride down with him, what with the whole the kid couldn’t stand up right thing. Shit, he thought, as the doors closed at last, May really was going to murder him. Not the kid. Him.

Peter’s arm was slung around Tony’s neck and he was half-pitched over on his feet, his face buried against Tony’s shoulder. “Ride my bike home,” he mumbled. “Where’d I put it?”

“FRIDAY picked you up,” Tony said. He spread a hand over Peter’s back, tried to keep them both steady. Crap, the kid was heavy. He looked like a string bean but he weighed a ton. “In a big town car, remember? And I’m gonna put you in another one and have it take you home, all right?”

A dreamy sigh, beer breath against the bow of Tony’s throat. “M’kay.”

Tony patted the kid’s head. “I just hope you can handle the stairs and stuff. Maybe I’ll call May and let her know you're on your way.”

“Mmm.” Peter laughed, the sound humming through Tony’s jaw. “She’s gonna be so mad. So, so mad.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“But I’m not, though.”

“You’re not what, kiddo?”

Peter raised his head and looked Tony dead in the eye, serious and sloshed. Wow. So fucking sloshed. “I’m not sorry.”

“For what? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Peter’s mouth lifted, crooked and sweet. “Famous last words.”

“What do you--?”

And then Tony couldn’t talk anymore because he had a mouthful of eager, drunk boy tongue and he was falling back--being driven back, really, like he was a four-door sedan with no plan--and his back was pressed to the side of the car and Peter was kissing him, desperate and wet and like zero finesse, no actual skill, and yet--

And yet, Tony was clutching at the kid’s back, his hands bunched into fists around Peter’s scratchy brown sweater and not pushing him away, not saying no, not doing any of the things that his brain understood that he should be doing, should’ve done a good 30 seconds ago, one of which was certainly not kissing Peter back. Which he was kind of doing. Out of kindness. Uh huh. So the kid would do better by whoever he chose to lay one on next time.

Then the doors opened, he heard them, heard the whir of the mechanisms, the hum of FRIDAY’s roving eye, heard the soft little moan that Peter gave up when Tony nipped at his lip and yeah, there was no fucking question, he was going to hell. In a handbasket. Special delivery. With an overnight stamp.

“Sir,” FRIDAY said pointedly. “Mr. Parker’s car is ready.”

Sense slammed back into him like a semi. “Good!” Tony spat, breathless. He got an arm between them, a better grip on his senses, and shoved at Peter’s chest. “Great. That's great. You hear that, kid? Time for you to go.”

Peter’s eyes were dark and his skin was a fucking rosebush, his cheeks prickled with heat. “Five more minutes? Please?”

The kid was hard. Tony could feel it. He wanted to feel it. Preferably with his mouth. Shit.

“No way,” Tony said, aiming for stern. “Uh huh. Shoo. Go home.”

Peter rolled his eyes--which should not have been so disarming--and disentangled himself, backed towards the elevator door.

“Night, Mr. Stark,” he said, a little hitch in his breath.

“Yep,” Tony said. He threw in a jaunty wave, what the hell. “Night, kiddo.”

The doors closed and the elevator shot straight back up and Tony buried his burning face in his hands, swallowed a semi-hysterical laugh. What the fuck. What the fucking fuck had he done, had he allowed Peter to fucking do, he--

He stepped out onto their floor, still reeling, and slammed face first into a wall made of Steve.


End file.
